THAT AFTERNOON, THE KING’S complement was to meet publicly with local leaders to finalize the city’s surrender. William had finally convinced Richard that “the king” needed to be present, and then successfully tricked Robin into carrying that responsibility. After all, it wouldn’t do for the king to celebrate too heavily, so William took that grave task for himself.

The details of the surrender, of course, had been worked out privately between Richard and Saladin’s envoys over the previous week, but these things required public pomp and tradition. The war was still far from over, but Saladin’s armies had retreated from Acre.

Robin sat high on Richard’s white horse, the king’s deeply tapered war helmet cropping his face to an indiscernible nose and chin. William stood on foot at his side, a freshly washed white tabard over his own mail. Traditionally, Richard himself would have been nearby as well, disguised as a squire in a deep hood, but his health prevented his attendance. The diplomacies would be carried out by Goddard of Leicester, Richard’s selected envoy, which meant Robin would spend his entire day only sitting on a horse looking important. Every now and then, he stole a chance to “accidentally” kick William’s helmet, and William could barely keep himself from giggling.

The location was some holy site which was supposed to guarantee their honesty, but William could see little of importance in the dirt courtyard. Its open space was tiered with low stone rings that offered ample visibility to the center. Richard’s footmen stopped in fine formation at the edge of one tier, Robin the only one on horseback. The Saracens, of course, were denied any show of military strength, so a collection of dirty old men wrapped in dirtier rags assembled across the courtyard. They sent three of their number to the central area, where they were joined by Goddard and a few others.

Thereupon followed an unbearably boring account of names and acreage of land proclaimed loudly by Goddard, repeated in some ungodly non-language by the elders, followed by murmurs of both spite and agreement from afar, all of which were far short of interesting. William chose to focus on anything else. Which was how it came to be that, as all other eyes were on the proceedings, he accidentally discovered he was staring at a group of two dozen men scrambling onto a rooftop several buildings away, carrying long poles.

He blinked to be certain, and he was.

“Robin. Danger.”

Robin didn’t react, and William was unsure he’d been heard over Goddard’s grand voice. He glanced up at Robin who, even under his helmet, was giving him a whimsical stare.

“I’m sure you mean Your Grace?” he corrected, deliberately.